


Unimprovèd Mettle

by Grondfic



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 13:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12343836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: This story is based on the version ofHamletadapted and directed by Robert Icke. Starring Andrew Scott as Hamlet, it played in London over summer 2017; and is due to be broadcast on BBC2 on 31 March 2018.The action takes place immediately following Fortinbras' entry into Elsinore, and traces events at the beginning of his reign.





	Unimprovèd Mettle

**Author's Note:**

> This specific _Hamlet_ was set in the present-day. Denmark was a surveillance state, and the Ghost appeared on one of the screens. Some actors (amongst them Fortinbras) only appeared on the news-screens set over the stage.
> 
> The three principal characters in this piece were inspired by the actors who played them at the Harold Pinter Theatre over summer 2017. There's an extra Author's note at the end of this piece about why this is important; but in the meantime, here are some photo links (check them again when you've read the story!):  
> Horatio:  
> https://hamletwestend.com/content/uploads/2017/05/Josh-Higgott-min-250x300.jpg  
> Hamlet:  
> https://hamletwestend.com/content/uploads/2017/05/Andrew-Scott-min.jpg  
> Fortinbras (who only appeared on a screen in the production, so here appears in 'mufti'):  
> https://www.rexfeatures.com/livefeed/2017/06/15/%27hamlet%27_play_press_night,_london?celeb=Nikesh%20Patel
> 
> The 'Improvements to be Expedited' by Fortinbras are borrowed from Zbigniew Herbert's _Elegy Of Fortinbras_ : https://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/zbigniew-herbert/elegy-of-fortinbras/

“Who’s there? ..... Nay, ANSWER me! Stand and unfold yourself!”

There’s no reply; and yet Barnardo still feels unseen eyes at his back. The unwavering conviction of not-aloneness won’t leave him. This is almost worse than when they’d seen the Old King on the cctv, stalking the palace in flickering monochrome. 

The new King – all-conquering Fortinbras – tells them now that Old Hamlet was murdered; and Barnardo is inclined to belief. After all, why would the poor old sod be wandering the damp cellars and bothering his wretched son if there hadn’t been some covert funny business? 

But that’s all been tragically sorted now. No call for any more hauntings; that final spate of deaths has been clearly explained in the new King’s daily broadcast to the nation. The State of Denmark is no longer rotten.

By way of reassurance, Barnardo glances back at the banked security cameras. Not a mouse stirring in any of the damp old corridors. Good! He’ll have a quiet watch to report when he’s relieved shortly. He turns in his swivel-chair to begin gathering his flask and empty sandwich box; shivering slightly as he encounters the permanent draught that afflicts this lofty surveillance post.

 _’Give you goodnight,’_ whispers the breeze, adding in an all too familiar voice, _’Move along now, soldier! Nothing to SEE here...’_  
...

Marcellus feels the sharp bite of the air as soon as he’s through the door. Brr! Fuck him if it isn’t colder in here than it is outside! Barnardo’s looking pinched, and almost blue with it; and he’s shivering even though he’s making valiant efforts to suppress the tremors.

“T’is bitter cold!” remarks Marcellus, carefully neutral.

Barnardo grunts agreement, although it turns into a bit of a gasp. Marcellus eyes him covertly as he gathers his things clumsily, and huddles into his jacket.

“Have you had quiet guard?”

There’s a pause, then –

“I’ve SEEN nothing!”

Marcellus lets him get to the door, then asks –

“Nor HEARD nothing, neither?”

Barnardo swings round, stifling an oath. The two guards exchange glances. Finally Marcellus sighs.

“What’s to be done?” he questions, not his fellow, but rather the ambient air, “T’is no use approaching Horatio this time. They say he’s mad himself – with grief!”  
... 

Horatio is desperately, blindly, drunk. Nonetheless, he knocks back another cup in the forlorn hope that THIS one will hide the serpent-sting of poison within its honeyed dregs. 

Alas! Since that first goblet was dashed from his lips by his Prince’s dying hand, the chance has passed. King Fortinbras has appointed him his own personal Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – a couple of Norwegian grunts, whose sole aim is to keep him safe; keep him docile; keep his unstable boat from rocking.  
...

Fortinbras can’t believe his luck. He’s marched into Denmark at the head of a raggle-taggle army of dissidents, minor malefactors, and people who are in some way indebted to him. It had really been a foray to test the waters here; under the pretext of marching through to punish Poland. But the further he’s pushed towards Elsinore, the less resistance he’s encountered.

At first his spies and outliers brought stories of some kind of citizens’ revolt at Elsinore; someone with a grievance, they said, was rabble-rousing in the town. However, by the time his vanguard was overcoming the token display by the gate guards at the castle, it was clear that something was very wrong within the palace itself.

They’d entered directly into a scene of carnage. Random bundles of clothing disfiguring the smooth floor of the great hall slowly transformed into huddled bodies as Fortinbras’ eyes adjusted to relative dimness. At the rear, where a pair of sliding glass doors led into a more private space, a pinkish light was slowly dying, giving an illusion of swirling movement within.

Only a low murmur - _”..sweet prince ..... flights of angels ..... rest.”_ \- revealed that anyone was left alive. 

The tableau had been perfect in its way. Two men, curled around one another; one breathing and weeping, one newly-motionless. They appeared superficially alike (although to be fair, all the pale Danes seem superficially alike to the ethnically miscellaneous Norwegians).

Now, of course, he knows that the living speaker had been Horatio, the prince’s only confidante within the court. But then – mindful always of the roving cameras, as well as of the possibility of assassination or ambush – he’d had his escort arrest the man, part him from the corpse, and take him away for discreet questioning.

It was only after he’d made a swift, thorough survey of the castle, accepted the surrender of the guards and assured them of continued service if proven worthy, that he’d realised what a treasure he’d been left, in this human piece of jetsam.

Returning from his preliminary tour, he’d found prisoner and escort ensconced in an anteroom; the former now slumped in a chair, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

"Well,” said the new King, “So he’s not yet told you whether he murdered the entire Court of Denmark singlehanded!”

“Says he’ll only speak to you, Sire. An’ since you told us to go easy, we din’t push it,” a soldier had explained apologetically.

“That suggestion was – I think – not meant entirely seriously,” opined the prisoner, raising his head and aiming the remark obliquely at Fortinbras; though in fact addressing the nearest guard.

Fortinbras cocked an eyebrow.

“Wishful thinking?” he’d wondered aloud.

“Not at all, Majesty. In fact, summary execution – in whatever form you choose – would come as a welcome respite. But alas, I may not so indulge myself. I have an obligation to survive and tell you – tell the world – a true account of my Prince’s revenge and death.”

“Begin,” said Fortinbras promptly, “at the beginning!”

“With respect, Majesty, I think I should begin at the end. I’m to tell you that you have Prince Hamlet’s dying voice for the Kingship. He prophesied that the election would light on you.”

It had taken a moment for Fortinbras to process this information. The election was a formality of course, but this endorsement by the last dying scion of the old monarchy would not come amiss at all, once the populus knew about it.

“I think,” he’d said smoothly, “that you (whoever you are) should tell this whole tale to Denmark entire! On the media cameras.”  
...

Horatio reckons that, in holding it all together long enough to say his piece onscreen and then following his Prince to the royal entombment, he’s discharged his obligations; for now. 

Sometime; he thinks woozily; he’ll pick up the tale again, and tell it to a newspaper, or give public lectures ( _The Prince and I_?), but he never believes himself; not really. It’s all too raw; too real; too final. 

When sober, he sometimes tortures himself with nightmare scenarios wherein the King keeps him cosily at court like a nut in a monkey’s cheek, spitting him out at intervals to entertain visiting dignitaries and bored courtiers with his party-piece - _The Saga of Hamlet the Dane_.

But maybe Fortinbras will be merciful and poison his next drink ... or the next .... or the next ..

As Horatio keels over once again, embracing oblivion in hopeful anticipation Olav and Asbjørn, the two soldiers assigned to him, raise their eyes to heaven in perfect synchrony ( _” ‘ere we go again!”_ ), and haul him off to bed, one arm draped over each of their sturdy shoulders.  
...

Marcellus shuffles uneasy feet as he awaits the Royal Presence. The constant cold, and continuing supernatural whispers in the very surveillance room in which these very guards had encountered Old Hamlet’s ghost have finally driven them to drastic action.

“We HAVE to tell the new King!” Marcellus had argued, “T’is a matter of trust atween us and him. We swore an oath, remember!”

As a result, of course, he’s been unanimously nominated by Barnado and Francisco to represent them before the new monarch.  
....

Fortinbras hears-out Marcellus’ story with barely-concealed contempt. He’d not believed the ghostly part of Horatio’s story (even though the man swore he himself had seen the apparition), and he doesn’t believe in this one either! It’s clearly a ruse on the part of the guard-detail to ingratiate itself with the new sovereign.

Naturally, they’ve picked on Young Hamlet as the likely revenant. Sadly, unlike his father, the Prince hasn’t manifested visually. He’s just a Voice and a breath of cold air. Very clever!

Still; muses the new King, it wouldn’t hurt to turn up at their guard-post unannounced, one of these nights. That will demonstrate that he’s listened to their concerns. And it will keep them on their toes.

Fortinbras ruminates a bit more. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll get Horatio along to join the fun! The man needs a mighty jolt up the backside if he’s to come out from the drunken haze he’s now adopted as a lifestyle-choice! Sighing a bit, he sends for the two Norwegian nurse-maids.  
....

Midnight in Surveillance Post 46. Marcellus and his little pod of watchers have been duly surprised by the royal visit; and the King is now ensconced before their impressive bank of screens viewing a grainy, quartered panorama of the palace cellars, kitchens and privies (this is not the most central, nor the most important, of the Surveillance Posts). 

Fortinbras has temporarily dismissed the guards; and now – alone - surveys this little corner of his kingdom with his customary interest and attention to strategic detail. Sometime soon, he must visit these cellars; and maybe assign a tiny permanent troop of his overstretched little army to them.

He snuggles further into his military greatcoat, wondering how anyone can tell if the Ghost is present, when it’s already as cold as the Ninth Circle of Hell.

_’As it is already cold; so am I already here!’_

Fortinbras frowns. He’d SWEAR there were words in that breeze around his ears. Surreptitiously, as if he were under scrutiny, he introduces the tip of one little finger into his ear, and jiggles it around. He can hear his own pulse in the blocked channel; but the words are still clear and audible over and around it.

_’So, you doubted Horatio’s evidence; even as you deny the evidence of your own senses now?’_

“Horatio isn’t a reliable narrator just at present,” Fortinbras finds himself explaining, “He’s been ... unwell ... since Prince Hamlet ... you? ... erm .. departed.”

_'I did not depart. The way was closed.’_

“So no fasting in purgatorial fires during the daytime then?”

_’Here is neither day, night nor time’s passing. Only the Land, which I am set to Guard; and the Threshold to which I am the Guide. Out of this state, I may speak.’_

“You might yet be an illusion of men – a trick by the soldiery. I’m told that Old Hamlet’s Ghost appeared in his earthly likeness to speak vengeance in your ears. Why do you not then, thus appear to me?”

 _'I gave you my VOICE, sire; my dying voice,’_ sighs the breeze, _’Should you wish vision also, you must give me good reason!’_

Fortinbras smiles. He knows now why he’s ordered the grunts to bring their charge up here. Quickly he signals for them to send Horatio in. There’s a pause, and then the man appears, uncertainly stepping from the darkness into the screen-light.

“Is this good enough?” he asks the cold draught at his ear.

 _'Yes. Why have you brought him here?’_ the Ghostly voice seems agitated.

“I thought as much!” says Fortinbras, ignoring the question.

Something stirs within one of the screens. A swirl of pale mist is slowly shaping itself. A figure emerges, but does not come properly into focus; it remains composed entirely of air.

_'I was called here for you. I am set here to be the Guardian; but it is you who now hold the Land. So I entrust it to you; to set it aright.’_

“I intend to,” says Fortinbras shortly, “Therefore there will be no need for you to continue manifesting to my soldiery. So – if that’s all ....”

_'Of your kindness, I would also ask a boon. It concerns Horatio.'_

“Of course it does! So ....?”

_'Give him back to me now. He wants to go. He never drains a cup but he’s praying for poison in the dregs.’_

“Give him back to you? Why? Can’t you even do Haunting without his help?”

Fortinbras looks away contemptuously from the moving air that constitutes the Ghost, back to where Horatio stands, blank and uncomprehending. The man is a shell now; eaten-out from inner despair. Pity! There might be the remains of a sound counsellor in there somewhere. Worth pulling out? Perhaps ...

But to what purpose? Would Horatio – could he now - be of any further use? Or should the King accede to the Ghost’s request; let them be forever together in Purgatory?

Fortinbras pauses there, a strand of ... something ... tugging within him. An unregal squeamishness? A healthy gust of anger banishes that nonsense!

See – THIS is why he’s King and Young Hamlet isn’t! The aim of a monarch is to acquire the best - the most useful – retainers, even if somewhat damaged. One can encourage potential too, of course, but only insofar as it will benefit the Realm. 

Hamlet’s weakness was always that he dealt with people as if they all interacted on equal terms. He even made his pathetic attempt at vengeance something PERSONAL. What a dreadful ruler he would have made! This realm would still have fallen to Fortinbras in the end.

The reedy voice of the Ghost interrupts this triumphal progression.

 _'It’s true I am alone; I was always alone. Even Horatio did not pierce my central alone-ness. I was used to see myself in my own private_ ’‘Mousetrap!’ _I spoke - internally, to my audience – all the thoughts and feelings that no one else could know. But now ... maybe if..._ ’

Fortinbras loses patience.

“I am NOT,” he shouts, “going to put an end to my most useful truth-teller just so that you can take a remote chance on him turning up in your particular coign of eternity to hold your hand in Purgatory! Dree your own weird, Prince-of- Denmark-that-was!”

_'You value him THAT much?’_

“I do!” avers Fortinbras; competitive possessiveness completely overtaking any previous reservations.

 _'Good!’_ sighs the Ghost, _’So you won’t mind swearing to protect him?’_

“Swear?” asks Fortinbras, taken off-guard.

_'Oh, do go over there and query it again! I would adore to be sending my voice underground to hound you, just as my father’s Ghost did!’_

“That murderous old bore? I won’t put you to the trouble, then. Of course I’ll swear – by all the gods and the Good Neighbours! Will that do?”

_'More than you know! Who gave you that oath? Your old Danish nurse?’_

Fortinbras swallows any reply. The Ghost, of course, is quite correct. He had been used to tease Nanna with the words, as he grew older and further from her apron-strings. (And if anyone but a Ghost had gotten that oath from him now, he would feel royally (hah!) outmanoeuvred!)

A sudden noise behind him makes him whip round. Horatio is walking straight towards the screen, eyes fixed. Fortinbras, caught napping, reaches out to grasp his arm, but too late; the man has already reached the screen on which the Ghost shows like a pale streak of piss. He doesn’t slow down, but crashes straight into it.

As Horatio falls directly at his feet, the screens darken; leaving Fortinbras to grope his way to the door and call for aid. Miscellaneous guards come running; Dane and Norwegian together, notes Fortinbras, distractedly pleased at this inadvertent integration. 

As the lights go up, the screens suddenly come to life again. In the renewed brightness, Fortinbras kneels to attend to the unconscious man at his feet. 

Horatio’s still breathing, but there’s a nasty bruise rising on his forehead, where he ran headlong into the screen. His eyelids flutter, even as the King bends over him.

“Well,” observes Fortinbras, drawing professional bravado over his underlying discomfort, “What an evening this is turning out to be!”

Horatio groans, and the soldiers hasten to lift and remove him. Left alone again, Fortinbras draws a deep breath, and wonders if the evening’s ceremonial drinking has gone a bit too far. That Ghost must have been an ale-dream. It MUST! That silly oath he swore to it ... 

He wonders, suddenly uneasy, if this insubstantial game of make-believe has any real-world repercussions!  
....

Horatio wakes disoriented, in an unfamiliar place. His head is splitting; his mouth is dry; and his craving for alcohol is a torment linking head and gut. A cup is presented, and he drinks like a sponge. It’s only water; but it staves off the pangs and the drouth for the time being.

“What happened?” he queries aloud.

“You walked head-first into a surveillance screen. Perhaps you recall why?”

Horatio can’t; and the effort of trying slides him back into darkness.  
....

Fortinbras is not amused. He’s (very magnanimously!) volunteered to sit here minding the patient whilst the overworked grunts stand-down and have a bite to eat. He’s been hoping that Horatio will revive and explain what had happened back there in the surveillance post; but the man is clearly further gone than the doctor thinks.

The King sits back and contemplates the bare decor and sullen colour-scheme that characterises this, the private wing of Elsinore City Hospital. He mentally adds the place to his list of ‘Improvements to be Expedited’ (together with the sewers, prostitution, begging, and a new prison). He needs a better personal physician than the old sawbones who attends his invasion force, too. 

At least it’s peaceful here. Fortinbras can free some headspace and re-order his priorities. Above everything; he needs reinforcements. He whips out his tablet and drafts a swift begging letter to his uncle in Norway – he can make it official with a fast-courier later.

Next on his list is a reliable, well-disposed Dane to act as liaison. Here Fortinbras pauses and contemplates the sleeping wreck before him. It should be Horatio, of course. It’s a damn shame the man has descended into despair and drunkenness. 

Still – he, Fortinbras, has bested a Ghost (no less) who wanted Horatio dead for its own selfish ends; and has sworn it an oath to protect him. Maybe, once the man is recovered he’ll make a bit of an effort. In any case, the King would still like to know why the idiot walked direct into that screen. The very one in which the misty form of Prince Hamlet (deceased) was manifesting.....

That bruise looks really nasty; it’ll mar Horatio’s looks for awhile. Not that he’s standout-handsome anyway; just ... pleasant. Comfortable. You could live with a face like that, and not get either overwhelmed or bored. 

Dammit; if the Prince thought that highly of Horatio, then he should at least be given a chance to prove his worth. Fortinbras will watch his recovery and send for him if .. when .. the time is right.  
.... 

“Hisself says ‘e wants our man, right now!”

“But we only just got ‘im back from ‘ospital, Asbjørn. ‘E’s still what you might call fragile.”

“Tell me about it, Olav! There’s bin no drink, though. That’s good; but a-course ‘e’s not ... quite ... “

“Got the black dog on ‘is back, I shouldn’t wonder. Oh well,” Olav shrugs, “What Hisself wants, Hisself ‘as to ‘ave. Better see if our man’s presentable!”  
....

“I trust,” says the King, “That your recovery is coming on apace. That bruise is fading quite satisfactorily.”

“Thank you, Majesty. I’m indeed more myself now. I apologise for the trouble I seem to have caused.”

“It was an eventful night,” observes Fortinbras, “I was somewhat disturbed by it all myself.”

“Indeed, Majesty, I’m sorry to hear that. I myself can remember very little.”

“Really?” the King sounds sceptical, “Nothing at all?”

“Very little,” repeats Horatio cautiously, “There was ... a white mist in one of the screens, I think. Did you see it?”

“I ... may have done,” replies the King shiftily.

“That surveillance post,” says Horatio after a pause, “Was the one where we ... I mean that same guard detail and I .... saw the Old King’s Ghost. It’s always been cold and dismal. I think now that they .... we .. might all have succumbed to the atmosphere.”

“I wouldn’t say,” says Fortinbras stiffly, “That you are wrong in that surmise, Horatio. Let us then forget it. Tell me, do you play chess?”

“I do, Majesty, but not since University. I shall be woefully out of practice.”

“Well I haven’t had much leisure for play recently, either. Shall we find out how evenly matched we might be?”

“Of course,” responds Horatio in surprise, and some relief, “That will be most agreeable, Majesty.”  
....

Fortinbras slowly begins to relax a little into his role, as the weeks, and then months pass. Uncle Norway has obliged with more troops; so that now the new King can lead a proper army to the further outposts of Jutland to secure the region. Soon, he’s returned to Elsinore, leaving the army to mop up.

He’s free now to turn his attention (and considerable energies) to reforms within the palace and his new capital city. He needs, too, to let them run that pesky Kingship election, which he has put-off for as long as possible.

Fortunately, it appears that Horatio (who studied Constitutional Law at Wittenberg as well as Natural Philosophy) can advise on the forms and customs. It turns out that the electorate is restricted to landowners and a limited number of long-lease-holders (all of whom have vested interests in preserving the status quo). Furthermore, the voting procedure takes the form of a public declaration in the Great City Hall at Elsinore; usually in the presence of the candidate(s) (and, Horatio implies, their personal guard detail augmenting the civilian police force).

Horatio had smiled innocently as he imparted all this information; and Fortinbras had been forced to smother a guffaw. Horatio had then added, equally guilelessly –

“There are, of course, some sections of society who feel that they too should be entitled to vote. It might pay to consider the claims of those of the mercantile community who don’t fall into leaseholder-categories. I’m sure they’d be ... very grateful; and might prove a useful check to the old landowning gentry.”

Fortinbras had made a note.

“I’ll think on that. Anything else?”

“Nothing, Majesty – except, of course, to invite the Archbishop of Elsinore to the Declaration. See – " (here, Horatio had deployed the abandoned chessmen by way of illustration) “A wise King will always have his knights about him,” (the black monarch on the board was swiftly joined by two horse-headed pieces, one ebony, one ivory) “BUT – " (Horatio’s dextrous, slightly back-bent fingers swiftly ranged two bishops on the appropriate diagonal squares to right and left behind the king) “it’s always helpful to invoke the blessing of the Church.”

“Ye ees, I see!”

The King has seen something else, also. Until that moment he’d assumed he’d been winning against Horatio at every game, on merit. Now, contemplating that tight little group on the chessboard - colours neatly and equally mixed – he’d wondered if Horatio had been skilfully losing to him all these evenings. He must watch – and play – much more carefully in future.  
....

With the voting declaration at the City Hall imminent, Fortinbras watches covertly from the dais on which the officials have seen fit to place him, as Horatio (much more smartly-dressed than usual) takes his place beside the Returning Officer. He’s to declare Young Hamlet’s vote once again before the assembled ranks of voters.

The magnitude (and length) of the procedure is revealed as the Deputy takes his place at a wide table, together with a clerk. He’s wielding an old-fashioned red inkpad; whilst the clerk is more smartly equipped with a light laptop. 

The Archbishop, who has joined him on the dais, explains to Fortinbras that each voter must now approach the table, make his declaration, place his left index finger on the ink-pad to prove to the world that he’s fulfilled his obligation, and then have the vote recorded by the clerk. The (putative) King wipes his forehead, settles back in his chair, and calls for a cup of wine.

The Returning Officer stands, and calls sonorously for the first voter. Lord Ragnar (who owns half of Roskilde) is already shoving his way to the table when he’s forestalled. Horatio moves neatly to the front, and speaks.

“My Lord Archbishop, Worshipful Returning Officer, Worshipful College of Voters, I stand here as a mouthpiece only. In myself, I am nothing and have no status. I am, however, enjoined to cast the first vote by proxy for my lord, Prince Hamlet, whose dying voice was given to Fortinbras of Norway, set here before you. This being approved by the Worshipful Returning Officer, I hereby declare Hamlet’s vote for Prince Fortinbras.”

Horatio pauses expectantly. The Deputy, somewhat doubtfully, but at a signal from his superior, extends the ink pad for Horatio to press. Raising his red-stained hand for all to see, he resumes.

“May all here bear witness that, banished from Lord Hamlet’s service by this fell sergeant death, I choose to follow his dying voice, and to serve Fortinbras as best I may, should the King deign to accept me. This do I swear by the almighty deity of the Archbishop here present, and by all the gods and Good Neighbours!”

The Archbishop tuts and mutters about pagandom, but the commingled soldiery cheers from the sides of the hall. Horatio makes a low obeisance to his King, and steps away from the table.

Fortinbras makes haste to beckon him over; and he settles quietly behind the King’s left shoulder, just like that bishop on the chessboard. Fortinbras can feel the man’s unwavering presence standing behind him throughout the whole of the long, monotonous day.

 _He’s mine now, Prince Hamlet;_ he thinks, _by his own volition!_  
....

It’s only much later, after the election has triumphantly concluded in a massive coronation feast, and Fortinbras – pleasantly tipsy – has unwound with a quiet chess game (which he won), that he bids Horatio a peaceful rest; and sits back to contemplate the day’s doings.

All this pomp and pageantry is a waste of time, of course; but he will have to get used to it. In any case, unpicking it all with Horatio in the quiet aftermath has almost been worth the tedium!

The man is extremely erudite, when he cares to show it. And of course, he knows the ways of the Danish court inside-out. Now he’s sobered up – having refused all alcoholic blandishments throughout the feast – he brings a clear-eyed detachment to the doings of the state. 

When he’s being serious, his eyes, beneath their heavy brows, become more and more piercing as he concentrates. Any discussion of ideas causes all his features to become animated. Sometimes that companionable face lights up so much that it’s almost .... lovely?

Fortinbras leans back and closes his eyes, the better to contemplate this phenomenon. 

Slowly, a possibility enters his mind like a miasma: it spreads; becomes a probability; becomes a certainty that (exhilaratingly) floods his whole being. This feeling is ....

Fortinbras sits up sharply, fully-wakened and clear-sighted.

What, by all the gods and Good Neighbours, is he going to DO?  
....

Marcellus is on guard-detail outside the royal quarters again. He’s unused to this idling life, kicking his heels outside closed doors. He misses his watch-companions too; Barnado and Franciso have been reassigned to a much busier, more prestigious surveillance-post under a dour Norwegian sergeant.

Marcellus isn’t a fool. He surmises that these changes in their fortunes are the result of the King’s visit to their post; and the subsequent shenanigens. The guards have been placed where they can’t gossip freely; and himself under the royal eye. Ah well; it might be said to constitute promotion.

His companion on duty tonight is a Norwegian. The King has begun a policy of integration of his troops; with the result that Marcellus is often paired with one or other of the two Nannas assigned to Horatio. Tonight, it’s the indefatigably-cheery lout, Olav; with his worn-out japes; one of which he now tries out (again!).

“You wanna bet on tonight’s chess game, Marcellus?”

“Atween the King and Horatio? You’re joking I think, Olav!”

Olav grins. 

“Worth a try,” he remarks (as he always does).

Marcellus wonders how Horatio, still nominally under house-arrest, bears the almost constant presence of the two. Still – the King often sends for him these days. Fortinbras is making a lot of changes in the city; and he likes to consult Horatio. And the evening chess-games have become quite regular over the past few months. So it’s not as if Horatio’s stuck with the Nannas 24/7 anymore.

Olav interrupts his thoughts again at this point.

“You not a bettin’ man then?”

“I don’t bet against a certainty,” says Marcellus irritably, “Horatio ‘ud be a fool (which I know he an’t) if he didn’t lose every game.”

Olav sidles across the doorway, a salacious, gleeful, secretive look on his face.

“You wanna bet on some’tin more chancy then? What’ll you lay me that the King beds ‘im  
before Michaelmas?”

Marcellus gapes at him. Such a thought had never occurred to him; although he knows (from experience) that Horatio ....

He blurts out the first question that comes into his head.

“How the hell would you know if it happened?”

Olav winks, sniggers and goes through the tedious nudge-nudge-wink-wink routine.

“Doors ain’t bin soundproofed yet ‘ave they? Trust me, friend, we’ll know!”  
...

Horatio is trying desperately to lose, but the King’s mind seems elsewhere tonight, and he’s playing a random game that leaves potentially fatal openings at every move.

Narrowly avoiding taking a rook, Horatio finds, to his dismay, that he’s inadvertently opened his bishop a direct path to Fortinbras’ king. He awaits his opponent’s next move with trepidation.

Fortinbras backhands his piece. It skitters across the board, jumps to the raised bordering, and teeters perilously. Gently Horatio’s cupped hand rescues the ebony monarch from an ignominious fall to oblivion.

“You win – for the first time!” says the King of Denmark triumphantly.

“There was no need, Majesty,” sighs Horatio.

“There IS need! **I** have a need to drag your damned humility down to my level! I need .... I NEED to say something.”

“In that case, Majesty, you should say it,” suggests Horatio; knowing full well, now, what is to come.  
....

 _He knows!_ , thinks Fortinbras wildly, _He ...._

“I need to tell you,” he bursts out, “that my first thoughts on waking are of you. And that my days do not begin until I have seen you. And that I will not sleep at night unless I have first wished you peaceful slumber; and afterwards, I dream of you. I cannot govern this hard-won Kingdom of mine unless I have you! I must!”

“Then, Majesty,” says Horatio peaceably, “You must.”

Fortinbras lets out a whooshing breath (relief; apprehension; mindless, famished exultation) and half-rises, sprawling across the chessboard. Chess pieces fly hugger-mugger (all pretence of hierarchical movement joyously abandoned). 

Horatio stands quickly, and they meet in the middle; Fortinbras grabbing at his shoulders and hauling him in for a kiss. The King is brutal about it in his need; greedy and demanding. He tastes blood before he’s done.

As they break apart, a thin trickle of red appears at the corner of Horatio’s mouth. He wipes at it with his left forefinger, contemplating the stain for a moment before raising his eyes to look squarely at the King.

“I realise, Majesty, that you’re in the first flush of conquest, both in this country, and here in this room; but was it necessary to come so .. " he pauses to think, “so ‘ _Old Hamlet_ ’ on me?”

Fortinbras flushes; shame, rage and a sneaking, reluctant acknowledgement warring within.

“Are you comparing me to my father’s killer?” 

“I went too far!” Horatio’s eyes are stricken and sad, “I’m sorry, Majesty.”

The King gives in. This man is the nearest thing he has to a friend in Denmark; and by way of recompense, Fortinbras has dealt him hurt. It is he who has gone too far; not Horatio. 

“Then let us both begin anew,” he pauses and then adds, almost shyly, “Would you come through to my quarters?”

“Of course. That would be most agreeable, Majesty.”  
....

Horatio pauses on the threshold. This is the Royal Bedroom of the palace. It’s impossible not to think about King Hamlet and Queen Gertrude; followed smartly by Queen Gertrude and King Claudius.

Thanking his stars that he’s never had occasion to visit this room before, he takes in the opulence of the hangings on the high bed; the intricate carvings on its posts and the wall-panelling; and the incongruous sight of an army camp-bed pitched under a window, which is clearly Fortinbras’ preferred sleeping-place. 

He has scant time to take in anything further. The King is all over him, tugging at clothing and covering his face, neck and (when they appear from under a hastily-discarded shirt) shoulders with hot kisses.

It’s probable, he thinks, fighting the dizzy provocation of it all, that judging by Fortinbras’ performance so far, the King lacks the experience that he has, in these matters. Plus Fortinbras is half out of his mind with pent-up Wanting. Horatio must take control of this, without seeming to do so. 

Unobtrusively, he lets his hands wander, centimetre by centimetre, towards Fortinbras’ belt-buckle. At first the King doesn’t notice; but when he does, he freezes suddenly, wide-eyed. Horatio carries on quietly; loosening, unfastening, unzipping. 

When all is gaping wide and ready to fall, Horatio drops from beneath the King’s hands, down on his knees; dragging trousers and underpants with him as he goes. From the ground, he gazes up the exposed dark length of tumescent royalty towering over him, and cocks an eyebrow.

“Yes!” roars Fortinbras (audible enough, Horatio thinks, to rouse echoes even in the cellarage; this will be public property by morning!)

Horatio kneels up, sweeps aside the hems of the King’s as-yet un-removed shirt and, leaning forward, he takes a deep breath and swallows the full length of him down. It’s a substantial mouthful.

Fortinbras, this time, claps the back of one hand over his own mouth and bites on it; muffling sound. Horatio, whilst applauding this late onset of quiet caution, is nonetheless obscurely disappointed. He places both his hands squarely on the King’s svelte hipbones curbing any involuntary movement; this first endeavour will be his alone. 

He moves only his tongue; throat opened and breathing cut-off. This can’t last long, or he will choke. Already, Fortinbras is making smothered sounds behind his hand; his further arm hooked backwards around the nearest bedpost; his eyes fixed, wide and lost.  
Horatio strains his jaw as wide as he possibly can, allowing his tongue marginally more freedom to roam. Even so, he can only flutter and writhe it a little.

It’s enough. With his bull-roar suppressed to a muted lowing, Fortinbras climaxes explosively.  
....

“I don’t use this bed, normally,” explains the King, finally stark-naked, as he throws back the counterpane, “I thought it was a bit excessive; though,” he adds thoughtfully, “I could be persuaded, now.”

“It’s certainly very comfortable,” agrees Horatio cautiously, shucking his remaining clothing as he clambers in circumspectly, to conceal his still-aroused state.

“Oh! Should I see to that for you?” clearly, Fortinbras has noticed.

“No need, Majesty. I’m content to await the main event, for which this has been merely a .. foretaste.”

“It has?”

“I am sure,” replies Horatio guilelessly, “that in an incredibly short space of time, the Great Bull of Norroway will once again be ready for another adventure.”

The King stares down into Horatio’s irreproachable little smile; and such a gale of laughter takes him that the huge bed shakes. When it subsides, Fortinbras looks much younger – a small intrepid boy setting forth in the eternal summer of childhood, on some exciting, pleasurable quest. 

Horatio’s cracked and secretive heart, in spite of itself, heals a little, and unfurls.

“Very well,” the King is saying, “All good comes to him who waits!”

A companionable silence falls.  
....

Marcellus is gloomily aware that Olav might win that obscene bet he’d proposed.

Since their last conversation, Marcellus has been covertly watching the King; and the uncomfortable certainty is growing – yes, Fortinbras has got it bad. 

Another chess game is in progress within; and Olav’s expression is one of sustained cunning, as he brazenly stands sideways, one ear glued to the door-panelling. 

“I think,” says Marcellus reluctantly, “You might be right – about the King, anyway. How’d you bet on Horatio’s ... erm .... reaction?

“Same like wot you said before, about the chess. ‘E’d be a fool not to.”

“Yes, that’s what I think too,” admits Marcellus, “does the King get this way often?”

“Not wiv a man before, I don’t think. Girls – yeah; quite a lot in the early days,  
before ‘e got tied-up wiv the vengeance thing, and that bit o’ land an’ all. But, not to worry; ‘Oratio’s got ‘is ‘ead screwed on now ‘e’s stopped wiv’ the drink. ‘Oo knows? They might make a go of it. Tell yer what – I’ll lay good odds on it lastin’ .... oooh, mebbe a year?”

“A lifetime?” Marcellus can’t resist the riposte.

“That’s a bit long-term for the likes o’ me, mate. Let’s say five year; an’ you got a deal!”

A crash from behind the closed door cuts off Marcellus’ reply. The two guards look at one another.

“We should go in and investigate,” says Marcellus at last, “That could be ... “

“I dunno ... we might be ... bargin’ in where we ain’t wanted.”

“Better make sure?”

Gingerly, the two guards ease the door open a crack, and peer through into the ante-room; just as the inner door to the King’s private quarters bangs-to, opposite.

“Whe-e-ew! Chessmen all over the floor – look!” says Olav, “You shoulda betted me on a draw, mate. Anyways, seems yer owes me on the Other!”

“I didn’t clinch the deal, and you know it! We’d best get out-a here; we an’t welcome!” 

Marcellus spends the rest of the watch lost in memories of a much younger Horatio, newly arrived at court; fresh and unschooled in the arts of ......

He just hopes now, like an anxious parent, that the lad knows what he’s doing!  
....

“In any case,” says Horatio, breaking the post-coital silence and continuing a past conversation as if nothing particular has occurred, “Your Kingdom wasn’t really ‘hard-won’, was it? You merely took adroit advantage of our small local difficulties.”

“Are you laughing at me?” asks Fortinbras incredulously; bristling.

“Oh, Majesty, how can you think so? - when I was once renowned for my gravitas and level-headed empiricism. The Palace Guard always came to me with their little problems.”

“I’ll wager they did! Well .. “ snaps the King, “It seems I must now learn Humour. I always thought Denmark such a serious nation.”

“Only in the matter of drink, Majesty. But surely I noted a latent humour in your first surmise that I may have done away with the entire court? At least – I hope I did!”

“That may be so,” concedes Fortinbras.

“It was wise to display it. Only Evil Overlords lack a sense of humour – that fact is well-known. It was notably absent in King Hamlet, for example. And I am persuaded, Majesty, that you would prefer not to be so designated?”

“I should warn you,” says Fortinbras in some irritation, “that you’re treading a very fine line, my friend! I advise you to quit whilst you’re ahead. And I also wish you’d call me by my name! We’ve been inside one another’s pants, and may shortly be inside much more than that. It’s time to indulge in a little intimate name-exchange, Horatio! Besides – " adds the King plaintively, “I’m never quite sure how far that clever tongue of yours is into your cheek when you title me.”

“I like to title you. You might come to find it endearing. After a while.”

With a roar, Fortinbras whips the pillow from beneath Horatio’s head, so that now he’s prone; and after a short struggle (in which Horatio takes no part at all), finishes up triumphantly on top, astride his hips.

“Do not presume to wrestle with your King!” he says breathlessly.

He’s rewarded with Horatio’s low laugh; but the man’s comment – when it comes – is nothing to the point.

“You are so very lovely.”

He lies beneath Fortinbras’ re-burgeoning erection, passive and appreciative. The King’s heart gives a massive thud, like a falling apple, and he snatches a rasping breath.

“I’ll have you now!”

“At your command, Majesty,” replies Horatio. He places his palms diffidently against the King’s smooth dark flesh, before adding – “And maybe in the throes of passion I’ll find the courage to call you Fortinbras.”  
....

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“Back to my room, Majesty. It won’t do for me to be here in the morning.”

“Nonsense, man. I’m the King!”

“Exactly, sire.”

“Look – this isn’t the court of Louis XIV. There won’t be a _Grand Levée_ tomorrow; and there never will be. We’re ... together now. Stay!”

“At your command, Majesty.”

“And STOP that! Listen – I .. it’s selfish, but I want it all! It would be most sweet to wake in the morning with you beside me. Don’t you want that too?”

“Of course I do, Ma .. Fortinbras.”

The King emits a happy little snort.

“When you call me by my name, we are just two persons in bed together. Nakedness is a great leveller. You will never be King, of course, but in all other things, Horatio, we are equals! Now let’s sleep, or I shall be fit for nothing when the Ambassador from England comes for his audience. I shall want you there as well. We must get you some better clothes and ....”  
....

“You will never be King, of course, but in all other things, Horatio, we are equals!”

 _Oh!_ thinks Horatio, with an inappropriate, confused, ignoble, jealous pang, _Oh, but I COULD be!_

And now; as Fortinbras, pleased with his own magnanimity, falls into slumber mid-sentence, Horatio, sleepless, dares to remember – fully - that time at which this new life of his could be said to have truly begun; when his initial despair and smooth descent into an alcoholic hell was disrupted by a visitation – the Voice of his Prince. He looks back at that night now, with a clear eye and knowing mind ....

**Epilogue**

_Horatio has a few brief moments of sobriety each day, between early-morning hangover and the first drink around midday. It is during one of these, as he stumbles around his room discovering items of clothing in untoward places; and coming to terms, yet again, with the fact he’s still alive, that he overhears his keepers, in the anteroom discussing him._

_“Hisself says our man’s gotta be there at the guard-post tonight, Olav. So it’s no use whingeing – we gotta get him up there – puking-drunk or not!”_

_“I know, I know. But no one said I ‘ad to be ‘appy about it, Asbjørn. ‘Es a waste of space the way ‘e is; and a total waste of our fuckin’ time. Y’know the lads are callin’ us Nannas now, don’t yah?”_

_It’s hard; but Horatio succeeds in staying sober all day. He’s not able to discover why he’s wanted at the surveillance point; and nor – until he arrives there under escort – has he been told that the King himself will also be present._

_He steps from the dark corridor outside at a signal from his Nannas, into an uncertain, flickering light. It’s coming from the surveillance screens that show every part of the palace. Horatio shivers, remembering how he and the guard-detail first saw Old Hamlet’s Ghost on those screens, walking dimly in the passages below._

_“Is this good enough?” asks the voice of the King somewhere beyond the screens’ light._

_Horatio, starting in surprise, opens his mouth to try for a noncommittal response; but he’s forestalled._

_A reply comes on a rush of freezing wind. Horatio can sense that the air carries a message; but it is not for him, and the words – the sounds – are unintelligible._

_As his eyes grow accustomed, he makes out the tall figure of the King standing by the banked screens, head cocked in a listening attitude._

_“I thought it might be!” he tells the air in some satisfaction._

_The air remains silent; but the cold intensifies. Horatio wishes with all his being for a draught of raw spirits_.

//Don’t take that road! T’is a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance!\\\ _sighs the voice of his lost Prince, right at his ear._

_“My sweet lord? Are you there?” breathes Horatio incredulously._

//A piece of me. List, list oh list! My time is short; and I have words to impart. Come!\\\ 

_Horatio, impelled by he knows not what, takes a pace forward and finds himself right before the banked screens, one of which opens to receive him. His Prince awaits; and he steps gladly across the threshold, leaving his physical self unconscious at the King’s feet._  
.... 

“No flights of angels, my lord?” asks Horatio sadly. 

“Nor no rest neither,” rejoins the misty figure before him. 

“Am I to avenge you, lord? If so, who .... ?” 

The apparition laughs. 

“All gone; all gone now Horatio. They live together in a pink heaven, as well-appointed as their palace. But, for my sins unexpiated, I am set in my father’s place. I am the Gatekeeper; and the Guardian. The soul of Denmark is my care; its comings, and its goings between this world and the next. So my message is to the new King, that he govern fairly.” 

“Then why am I here?” 

“Because, since you have a lifetime to live, there is something you should know. And – for the love I bore you in life – permit me to offer a little advice?” 

“To stop trying to kill myself with drink? T’is done already, Lord!” 

“Not that; although – the readiness being all - yet must the road be travelled; and it will be a hard one. Once back to your true self, Horatio, you should strive to be to King Fortinbras, what you were to me, once.” 

“Oh my dear Lord, I ... that would be nigh-impossible.“ 

“Alas! I am very sorry, good Horatio, that in my life I never saw your heart. Your love for me was of a different kind; such a kind as I would not – then – have known how to reciprocate. And now – oh, now, there is this other thing between us.” 

“Your untimely death, my Lord?” hazards Horatio with a bitter, groaning laugh. 

“Son of My Father, such love as that - between brothers - would be mortal sin; even though committed in human ignorance!” 

Horatio stares at the misty outline before him in disbelief. 

“But .... but ... My father was a soldier, Mother said.” 

“And so,” says the Ghost, “was mine! The best in Denmark. He fought Young Fortinbras’ father in single combat; and thus killed him, so they say.” 

“I know that story. But ..... King Hamlet my father? How can that be?” 

“In the usual way, I imagine. But you may believe it. I am the Gatekeeper and the Guardian; the souls of all in this realm are open to me.” 

“If you tell me, Lord, then I must believe. But – were it known generally – then my life would surely be in jeopardy.” 

“This is true,” concedes the Prince, “even though I have extracted an oath from the King that he will protect you. Whether he would abide by it should he discover your heritage however, is debatable. Therefore, I counsel again that you become to him, what you were to me. And more!” 

“Alas, I lack the skills of a courtier.” 

“Become once again, your sweet self, brother. Fortinbras is disposed to favour you, recent behaviour notwithstanding. And now, my time here grows short, and you must leave this place!” 

“Where is this place, indeed?” 

“This is the Threshold, Horatio. Beyond that dark portal lies the Other.” 

“Oh ..... OH! Let me come with you!” 

“Access is denied me. And that is not yet your fate either, brother-mine. Nothing so easy! My soul unseals thee from itself. Go back, my dear, and make of your life something bearable; something comfortable; something useful; something ... beautiful?” 

Just for one instant, the mist clarifies itself, like a screen image coming into focus; and Horatio beholds his Prince – his brother – as he appeared in life; one eyebrow cocked quizzically, and that little smile .... 

_.... and then there’s a buzzing in his ears, containing urgent words. His eyelids weigh a ton apiece, but he forces them open with a mammoth effort; and finds himself gazing up into the dark handsome features of the King of Denmark._

_“Well,” says Fortinbras conversationally, “what an evening this is turning out to be!”_

Horatio stares into the darkness, torn. He has done as his Prince recommended. He has gained the trust, and then the desire of the King. He has allowed himself to be seduced by Fortinbras’ vibrant youth, beauty, and the raw power that he so emphatically wields.

And now, with the vacant post of Court Favourite (and possibly First Minister) undoubtedly soon to be his, Horatio ponders. He can see, from there, a possible path for himself, clear to the throne of Denmark. The pieces fall together as on a chess-board. 

He has an _entrée_ to the Danish military – the soldiery has always been well-disposed to him. (Why? He wonders. Perhaps some of them know, or have guessed, his lineage?). 

A word here and there; growing ale-house rumours of a ‘lost heir’; a slight manipulation of the electorate; military backup; a dagger in the dark, or poison in the loving-cup .... 

_'Brother; alas that I gave HIM my dying voice. But since it is done, and he anointed, I hold you to my final words. Be unto him the Shadow, not the murderer!’_

Horatio sighs. He’s not sure if he actually heard his Prince, or if the words came from within himself; but he knows he must abide by them. The way of Claudius is not his way. 

And besides; what he feels now for Fortinbras is not hatred, nor even an exploitable void. He is not besotted, as the King appears to be: but there is forbearance; pride; friendship; maybe even tenderness. And potential - a chance for him to uphold the dignity of Denmark within a future union of the two crowns. 

Something ..... beautiful? 

So then; he can (as now in this intimate darkness) shamefully admit to these baser feelings; overcome and dismiss them; and finally, half-whimsically, mourn the impossibility that, in some unimaginably-distant alternative-future, a playwright of genius might pen a piece to take the town by storm – 

_The tragical-comical-historical-pastoral Tale of Horatio I, King of Denmark!_

**Author's Note:**

> The (possible) likeness between Josh Higgott's Horatio and Andrew Scott's Hamlet was very pronounced when we saw the play live. I don't know if they were intended (as part of the play) to look alike; but it's interesting that Josh appears as the only understudy for the part of Hamlet in the programme. Anyway - it set ME thinking .... !


End file.
